


This Is the Story of How They Met

by stravaganza



Series: The Bigger They Are (the Harder They Fall) [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drinking, Drunken One Night Stand, Elves, Emotionally Repressed, Family Issues (Dorian's), Fraternities & Sororities, M/M, Mages, Magical Realism, Mentions of Sex, One Night Stand, Prank Wars, Qunari, Some Swearing, Templars, all the aforementioned issues will eventually be resolved further on in the series!, basically like in canon, everything else is the same, just stick around if you'd like, self-damaging behaviours
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-11-21 13:26:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11358420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stravaganza/pseuds/stravaganza
Summary: Dorian had never regretted a one night stand before. He was most certainly NOT going to start now.





	1. The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> First story of a silly series that is going to be me trying to put together the many college!AU plot bunnies I've had in the past few years!
> 
> Pretty much every story's title will be from one of the songs I've listened to while writing, more or less fitting to what the story will be about. This one is from "Where Did the Party Go" by Fallout Boy.  
> Meanwhile, chapter titles will just be silly. :P
> 
> Please, enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I've been told that the (purposely vague) description of Dorian and Bull's encounter can make the whole thing sound non-consensual. I can assure you it was a hundred percent consensual, although Dorian HAS issues that will be resolved later in the series (it's actually the point of it). It's based on their first in game "interaction".  
> Still, if mentions of drunken sex where one of the parties forgot what happened afterwards is a trigger to you and you don't want to read further, I advise to wait until the next part of the series is published first. It will basically be the encounter in its entirety, which I won't post here because not everyone likes porn (and because part of the plot revolves around Dorian not remembering that night clearly, since part of his character development will revolve around abandoning self-damaging behaviours with Bull's help. Like in canon).  
> That said, if you decide to go on and read it, I hope you enjoy the story nevertheless and decide to stick around until it gets fully developed!

As much as Dorian disliked waking up with a hangover (and a _massive_ one at that), he very much enjoyed waking up pleasantly sore in all the right places. Having no real recollection of what had happened the previous night didn’t bother him as much as it probably should have, mostly because it wasn’t the first time something like that happened. It would hardly be the last, too, since Dorian woke up in his room, safe and sound.

He knew what had happened, anyway, even without remembering it. He had gone to one of the nearby pubs for the night, after fighting with his father yet again. Then he had gotten drunk, most likely by starting the evening off with heavier drinks rather than the Fereldan beer he preferred despite himself. Finally, he met someone interesting or handsome enough in his drunken eyes, proceeded to follow him home or into the closest alley to get fucked into the next morning, only to then crawl home and pass out in his bed. His usual procedure, nothing new.

Point and case: his hangover, the fact that he was still wearing his clothes from last night, the soreness in his backside, and the throbbing in his neck, probably indicating a hickey or bite mark.

Dorian groaned as he tried to open his eyes, only to be blinded by the sun streaming in through the windows. Of _course_ he’d left the curtains open. He was the worst roommate ever. He never closed the curtains before leaving, he never left himself any water on the nightstand, and he _never_ showered before collapsing into bed after a night of drunken shenanigans. He wasn’t even sure where he had gone the night before, not that it mattered.

It took Dorian about half an hour to roll out of bed. His head was pounding, but he knew how to feel better. He had a well-established morning-after routine: hot shower, strong coffee, and then he would decide what to eat depending on how sick he was feeling. Rinse, wait for the next phone call from home, repeat. _Ad nauseam_.

Carefully avoiding looking at himself in the mirror before getting cleaned up, Dorian struggled to get his clothes off as his limbs still felt lead-heavy. Once he got to his trousers, he dug in his pockets out of habit and found a crumpled paper napkin with the logo of the Hanged Man.

‘Great, now I need _two_ showers,’ Dorian thought, amazed that the Hanged Man even _had_ napkins.

He spent about five minutes cleaning himself, noticing with relief that either him or his paramour had thought of using the necessary protections, and then ten more just soaking under the hot water. One less thing to worry about, then, thankfully.

When the water started running colder, Dorian turned the stream off and stepped out, treating himself to his fluffiest towel for drying up before he had to slip clothes on again. Once dressed he got ready to go out, styling his hair and moustache, wishing that looking fabulous could be completely effortless.

Eventually, when his need for coffee surpassed his need to groom, he left his bathroom and headed for the door, picking up his sunglasses, phone and door keys on his way out.

However, before he could leave, someone knocked on the door. Dorian frowned in confusion. Who could it be? He was pretty sure he didn’t know anyone who got up before… he glanced at his phone and groaned. 9:41. Ugh. He hated his internal clock.

Without much of a choice, Dorian put his glasses on and went to open the door, sure that it would either be Dagna, dragging him out of bed so they could keep working on their project, or the Mage Rights major living across from him, to complain about the bullies that were most students of Templar Disciplines.

Except, when he opened the door, he found a wall where the hallway was supposed to be. A wall wearing a very tight t-shirt with ‘save the planet, ride a bull’ written across it.

Huh. Weird.

“Aw, you’re already decent! What a shame,” the wall said in a deep, rumbly voice.

Well.

“May I help you?” Dorian asked, pulling his glasses a bit down the bridge of his nose so he could peer up at the man quite literally darkening his threshold.

The _qunari_ man, complete with large horns, facial scars and an eyepatch. Right.

“I’m pretty sure I’m the one who can help _you_ here,” the man said, holding up a paper bag.

He handed it to Dorian, who accepted it with suspicion, soon confirmed when he opened the bag to look inside it.

“I have no idea who you think you are, showing up at _my_ door at nine in the morning with a double cheeseburger and a fast food coffee, but I’m not an easily swooned guy,” he said, closing the bag with distaste and offering it back to the qunari.

The man didn’t seem phased. “I thought you might say that, but I also know the best way to fight a hangover is by eating proteins. It was this or raw eggs, you should thank me.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, regretting it soon after when his brain gave a painful lurch. “How may I ever repay you,” he said, flatly, about ready to slam the door, throw the food away and climb out the window to go get a real breakfast.

“A kiss will be enough,” the qunari said with a chuckle that did most certainly _not_ make Dorian’s stomach roll pleasantly.

“Why would I kiss a stranger?” Dorian snapped, a growing sense of impending doom gnawing at him. He was starting to have the feeling that the man wasn’t a stranger, after all.

Instead of taking offense, the qunari burst into boisterous laughter. “You were drunker than you looked if you’ve completely forgotten last night!”

“Would you mind keeping your voice down!” Dorian hissed, taking the man by the arm and pulling him inside the room. It was easier than he would have expected, too, a bit like pulling a huge dog by its leash. A dog that had to bend down a bit to pass through the door.

Once the door was closed and the man in his well-lighted room, Dorian took his time studying him. He was taller than him, like most qunari on campus were, and broader too. He had one of the most impressive pair of horns Dorian had ever seen, almost as broad as the man was, and his eyepatch was tied to one of them. The one eye still present was attentive and piercing, studying Dorian carefully despite the half-grin on the surprisingly attractive face.

“So do you remember me or not?” the qunari asked, tilting his head curiously to the side.

“I don’t, but I’m no idiot either,” Dorian bristled. “I deduced who you were. What I don’t understand is what the hell are you doing here?”

The man simply shrugged and looked around the room, as if taking in any details.

“Oh, nothing much, really. I was worried about you – you were kinda drunk last night.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes at him, highly suspicious of such a statement.

“And how did you find out where I live? I never tell any of my…” he fumbled for the right word, but soon gave up, “… partners anything about me.”

“Yeah, you weren’t very open with me, either. That’s why I checked your IDs.”

Dorian blinked at him for a moment, and then felt his hackles rising.

“You _what_?! How _dare_ you invade my privacy in such a way, you, _you_ -!”

“Oh, I’ve invaded more than your privacy last night, big guy,” the qunari said, a wicked grin spreading on his face as he blinked purposefully in what Dorian could only guess was an attempt at winking one-eyed.

The joke, however, only served to make Dorian angrier.

“That doesn’t mean you’re allowed to dig through my stuff and _stalk_ me!” he pointed out, crossing his arms. “Especially because I don’t even remember you.”

The statement didn’t seem to affect the qunari, who simply shrugged. “My name’s The Iron Bull. Most people just call me Bull.” Dorian glanced down at the man’s t-shirt and had to try really hard to keep himself from commenting on it. “I had to check your documents to make sure you were who you said you were. Not many Vints come onto me, so I was a bit suspicious.”

Oh, so _he_ had gone to the qunari to flirt? Great. As if this couldn’t get any more embarrassing.

“What help is checking my identity in making you less suspicious?”

The man – The Iron Bull – shrugged again. “It confirmed you were a student, if nothing else. That’s reassuring enough. I have to be careful, you see. I’m a Ben-Hassrath and I can never know who will try to get to me, or how.”

Dorian had to blink a few time at that, the frown still sitting on his face getting deeper.

“So you’re a spy. A qunari _spy_. Of course. Why wouldn’t I believe it?” he asked sarcastically.

“You’re free to do as you please, but at least you won’t complain about me not telling you sooner in the future.”

Dorian turned his head to the side and let out a sarcastic bark of laughter.             

“That would require a continued acquaintance,” he pointed out, implying that it wasn’t going to happen.

“If you could remember last night, you wouldn’t be so against it. You set fire to my curtains in your excitement. Pretty sure the school will make me pay for them,” Bull said with a grin that spoke volumes about how little he cared about the money, as long as he could brag of such results.

Dorian blushed and blustered. “Even if I did remember it, I don’t do relationships,” he said.

“I never said relationship. Just, it would probably be best for your health if you stopped getting drunk to fuck strangers every other weekend,” Bull said. “I’ve seen you around the Hanged Man before. I thought instead you could just give me a call whenever the… _urge_ strikes.”

“No,” Dorian insisted, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. If I wanted to have sex while sober I would do it.”

Something flashed in Bull’s eye, and the man took a couple of steps closer to Dorian. He should have felt intimidated by their size difference, but somehow he didn’t.

“Hey now, mine’s just an offer. You don’t have to take it, but I thought you might like to know the option’s there. You should know that there’s nothing wrong with what you do or what you like,” Bull said, his voice steady, reassuring, and hitting quite close to home.

Dorian’s eyes met Bull’s, and for a long moment he stood there in silence, thinking of an appropriate rebuttal.

Eventually, he settled for, “You don’t know me, and it’s none of your business,” hoping his voice sounded firmer than he felt.

“That’s true, but as I’ve said. I’ve seen you around campus. Perhaps I’m wrong, but while you seemed pretty open last night, you’re never with someone in a way that could be called romantic, that I’ve noticed. Even though you don’t seem to hide who you are, you also seem to only ever take it out when drunk. That’s not healthy,” Bull said, and Dorian couldn’t bear how patronizing the qunari was.

“Well, thank you very much for the food, but as I think I’ve mentioned, it’s none of your business. Now you’ll excuse me, but I have to go to the library,” he snapped, heading for the door and holding it open.

The Iron Bull bowed his head minutely, a silent gesture of acquiescence, but even as he headed for the exit, he couldn’t seem to help one last comment. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Dorian slammed the door after him.

 ---

Dorian waited another hour before leaving his dorm, just to make sure his qunari stalker had left. Of course, while doing so he ended up eating the food he had been brought by said stalker, if nothing else to fill his grumbling stomach. He would never, not even under torture, admit that the greasy, filthy cheeseburger _did_ help with his headache. The same couldn’t be said about the coffee, the fast food brand almost offensive to his pallet and a far cry from his preferred freshly ground dark roast imported back from Tevinter.

Still, he stomached the insipid brew, if nothing else in the hope that the caffeine would work quickly in this watered down version. If nothing else, it would help him survive until he could _leave_.

As it turned out, he didn’t need to bother: the qunari was nowhere to be seen, and even if he were a spy like he claimed to be (which Dorian highly doubted) it was impossible for someone of his size to just hide in a bush to follow him.

Reassured by the lack of horns on the horizon, he strolled in direction of The Herald’s Roast quite leisurely, his headache reduced to a dull throb in the back of his head.

The place looked far more like a pub with its dark wooden interiors, small windows and booths with leather and velvet bench seats, only the two Antivian-style espresso machines shining beneath the already lit overhead lights betraying the true nature of the smoky place.

“Why, good morning, luv! You look like shit,” the barista called out as soon as she saw him, a teasing smile on her ruby lips.

“Spare me, Isabela, my morning has been positively _dreadful_ ,” he said with flair, taking his sunglasses off and sitting at his usual single person table right beside the counter of the campus’ only coffee shop.

“Hair of the Mabari?” Isabela asked, nonplussed, holding a bottle of whiskey up for Dorian to see, shaking it as if to make it more inviting when he only raised a condescending eyebrow at her.

“Do I look like I’m in the mood for alcohol?” he asked dryly, watching as the woman shrugged. How her tight fitting shirts didn’t explode off of her would always be a mystery.

Technically, no one was allowed to sell alcohol in the school’s premises, but Isabela worked around that by offering free shots to lure new clients in. Most of them came for the alcohol and stayed for her boobs, but not Dorian: he was there for the conversation.

…And because he was too lazy to go to any of the shops outside the campus’ perimeter.

“Well, don’t you look like a dragon just farted you out?” a gruff voice came from besides him.

Dorian sighed and turned his head, finding himself eye to eye with a very smug looking Varric Tethras.

“I thought writers were supposed to have a way with words,” the Tevene said, rubbing his temple with the fingers he was using to prop his head up, not bothering to hide his smirk.

Varric shrugged. “Only when the words are written, hence the origin of ‘writer’. And, I’ll be honest because you look like you just died, but most times it’s words that have their filthy way with writers,” he said sagely, climbing up one of the counter’s stools so he could tower over Dorian. Just a bit.

“Charming.”

“Your free life lesson for the day,” Varric said as he leaned on the counter, flashing a smile at him and pairing it with a wink and gun fingers with his free hand, just to be on the safe side.

“I’ll treasure it,” Dorian retorted flatly. As if he would ever write anything other than a dissertation or essay.

Varric’s answering roar of laughter made his head throb, but this is the sort of company Dorian loved and he never regretted any conversation, even if it aggravated his hangovers.

“Make yourself useful and hand the man his coffee, dwarf,” Isabela cut into the conversation, slamming the paper cup in front of Varric, as usual wanting to avoid having to walk past the counter.

The dwarf complied, but his smug expression was back in place.

“I could give you plenty of writing tips, too, you know? Other than essential life ones,” he said as he picked the paper cup up and placed it in front of Dorian, who didn’t even bother to thank him. He knew Varric would count this as a favour and cash it back in, eventually.

“Please, spare us.” Isabela sounded pained, her eyes rolling so fa back in her head Dorian was sure she had just seen one of her ancestors. She wasn’t the first fan of books, so much that she had been permanently banned from the library for taking books without notifying them, just to use them as door stoppers.

“Oh, but I’ll give you a good one!” Varric promised, his grin turning shit-eating. “You see, sometimes when you’re writing you’ll find that a character will go in a totally unexpected direction than what you had planned for them. They might turn out to be idiots rather than geniuses, gay rather than straight, and assholes rather than the hero you had in mind when you had started your story,” he explained, turning towards Dorian when Isabela stuck her fingers inside her ears.

As if _he_ would be any more interested.

Dorian made sure to put up his most bored expression, still leaning his head on his hand and delaying the meticulous act of putting sugar in his coffee. He still took a sip, just for added dramatic effect, only to startle and splutter when he found it tasted strongly of whiskey. He glared at Isabela, but she just kept whistling a shanty tune to drown Varric’s words out and ignore them.

“Oh?” Dorian said, making sure to sound bored out of his mind. Not that he _was_ , it was just a matter of principle. To teach Varric not to give unwarranted advice. At least in this case it wasn’t anything to do with sex, thank the Maker.

“Yes! Sometimes a character you’re not even thinking about barges in and starts running the show, just like that, and before you know there’s a lot more things to the tale you were trying to tell.”

Varric winked into the distance then, as if looking at a hidden camera pointed right at him. Dorian felt uncomfortable for some reason, and took another sip at his spiked coffee.

It did not make him feel any better.

“Well, I would love to stay and chat all morning, but that wouldn’t help my headache at all,” Dorian stated, making no move whatsoever to leave.

Varric snorted, and turned around to finally give his coffee order to Isabela. He always tried to come up with new interesting mixes, but so far it was clear he was better at writing than he was at coffee making. To be fair, he also excelled at exasperating Isabela, especially since he liked to spend most of his day in the most secluded corners of the Roast writing his stories, which where serialised in the best newspaper Skyhold college hosted, the Inquisitor’s Post.

Dorian watched for a while as Isabela dashed around the counter with a wicked grin, grabbing spices and syrups like an evil witch working on a deadly potion. He knew that, no matter how they teased each other, Varric and she were close friends. As close as a talkative dwarf and a was-definitely-a-pirate-in-another-life could be, at any rate.

“I don’t see your notebook about, Varric. Say, are you going to the post later?” Dorian inquired, feigning indifference as he swirled his coffee in its paper cup as a connoisseur would a fine wine.

“Maybe, maybe not. I have to give my last draft to editor in chief Pentaghast, but I like to make her wait until the last second. Makes her squirm,” he said with an evil grin.

“Is that why you insist on using her full title, then?” Dorian asked, amused.

“Hey, that’s about respect, kid,” Varric said patronizingly, despite not being much older than Dorian.

“Sure. Respect, and the fact that she hates it.”

“Nah, that’s just a plus.” Varric winked, in his direction this time, and picked his coffee up.

He walked to the till to pay, and Dorian followed with a sigh.

“Next time, please, just give me my usual Isabela. I’ll make sure to let you know if I need a special,” he said as he slid some coins on the counter, placing an extra tip in Isabela’s “booze jar”.

“I think I know better than you, sweetie. How’s your head?” she asked, leaning on one elbow against the counter, her free hand on her tilted hip and a smug smile on his face.

Dorian rolled his eyes, which was in itself an answer. “I can’t live my life staying half-drunk forever,” he countered, crossing his arms pointedly. He wasn’t sure what was worse, really – admitting that Isabela’s solution _did_ work, or admitting that The Iron Bull’s solution had.

Not that he ever wanted to talk about his meeting with the qunari to everyone. Or about him. Ever. At all.

“Why not? That would help you get laid more,” Isabela said casually, right on target.

Dorian was aware that the whole campus knew about him and his… drunken escapades, but he pretended not to care, looking down his nose at her with an imperious sniff.

“I don’t need alcohol to get laid,” he stated, and then turned around to leave the dimly lit coffee shop.

He chose to ignore Isabela’s cackle as it followed him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this. Stay tuned for the next chapter!  
> Side note, Varric basically wrote himself in the scene without me even thinking of him, so yes, the little shit is winking at me. What can you do?  
> (And yes, he woke up at 9:41 because that's when Inquisition starts lol)


	2. The Inquisitor's Post

Dorian wasn’t following Varric, really. They were merely heading in the same direction.

Sadly, that didn’t stop Varric from wanting to _chat_.

“Looking for your favourite brand of beef flavoured instant ramen?” Varric teased, causing Dorian to sigh.

“Really, Varric? It’s been months since I taught Cullen how to use conditioner.” He wasn’t in the mood for playful banter, really, but getting Varric to shut up could be impossible. “You even lost a bet about it, remember? You thought his hair was a lost cause and he’d give up on it, but he didn’t and it wasn’t and now his hair is...”

“Still bordering on poodle,” Varric chimed in, unhelpfully.

“I was about to say ‘tamed’,” Dorian laughed, despite himself.

“And I was just about to point out that you did a nice job, there, nearly managed to change topic.”

“Ugh, what do you want me to say? That I like a man who can look pretty while getting owned at chess? Because yes, I do. Who doesn’t?” Dorian said with a note of exasperation in his voice.

“Awww, you have a crush, that’s cute,” the writer teased, looking over at Dorian to enjoy his embarrassed flush.

“Oh, leave me be, Varric. I have bigger problems at the moment,” he waved him off, only to get a raised eyebrow.

“Bigger problems, or bigger _problems_?” Varric asked suggestively, if the wiggle of his eyebrows was anything to go by.

 _That_ made Dorian blush and look around suspiciously, as if his qunari paramour could just pop out of nowhere and embarrass him. Of course, his dwarf companion didn’t miss out on his reaction.

“I can smell a story, here,” he said with interest, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Dorian could only groan. “I’m not talking to you about my private life. Not now, not ever.”

Sadly, Varric wasn’t easily deterred. “Come on, all the signs are there! You’re very hungover, you’re walking slower than your usual flouncing, and I can see the hickeys on your neck. That means saucy adventures in my book.”

“Oh, good thing I’m never going to read it, then.”

Varric clicked his tongue as the building holding the Post’s editorial office was. Most of the people who worked there jokingly called it the Inquisition, and the name had grown on pretty much everyone. Especially Cassandra, despite what she said. Varric knew it made her feel powerful and important – well, _more_ powerful and important.

“You’re not going to tell me anything? Suit yourself, it just means I’ll have to go around and ask Leliana to investigate. You know how she loves the juiciest gossip, I’m sure she’d find someone who saw what happ–”

Before Varric could finish his sentence, Dorian had grasped his shoulder and tugged him back from the door. His face was now three shades darker than it ought to be, and Varric let his hand fall from where it was reaching for the door handle so he could put it on Dorian’s forearm.

“Wow, it’s really a big problem this time, huh? What happened? Did you hook up with a married guy? A professor?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Worse. It’s… well, I think it’s a madman,” he said, frowning. “He checked my ID last night, I don’t even know when he had time to. Then he looked me up on the campus records, I think, and this morning he came to my room–”

“Wait,” Varric stopped him, looking worried. “Are you saying you have a stalker? Did he threaten you, or did you feel unsafe in any way?” he asked, sounding more serious than Dorian had ever seen him.

All in all, it made him feel warm inside to know he had at least someone who worried about him.

“No, or I don’t think so, at any rate. He didn’t threaten me – not that he’d need to, seen his size. He was… nice, actually. He brought me a hamburger and coffee to fight off my hangover, too, and it pains me to admit it worked. Greasiest thing I ever ate, I had to wash my hands three times afterwards.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean he’s a nice guy, necessarily. Maybe he just needed an excuse to check your place out.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Are all writers always too dramatic?”

Varric shrugged. “I like to think it’s a perk of the trade.”

“Well, he did not make me feel unsafe, but if that ever changes I’ll make sure to tell you,” Dorian said.

“Good. I’ll get Curly to act as your bodyguard, I’m sure you’d like that,” Varric teased.

“Oh, yes,” Dorian agreed with a chuckle. “I’d really like to see a Templar drop out taking on a self proclaimed Ben-Hassrath spy.”

The words were out before he could stop them, and he didn’t need to look down to know that Varric’s eyes were as wide as his own at the slip. He still checked, and he wasn’t disappointed.

Being always right was such a burden.

“Wait.”

“Varric…”

“So, are you saying–”

“Please, _don’t_ say it…”

“–that you went and bedded a _qunari_?!”

“Ugh. Must you use that verb?” Dorian groaned, rubbing at his temples and squeezing his eyes shut, hoping his headache wouldn’t come back in full force. He could sense that Varric was already plotting, and he hated that.

“Are you kidding me? That’s amazing! I can already see the Post’s headlines when it comes out – “Tevinter and Seheron, finally united by the fiery passion of two brave, young students of Skyhold College! Their tragic love story–”

“Why must it be tragic?”

“Because you’re supposed to be star-crossed lovers.”

“We’re not even _lovers_ , Varric.”

“ _Their tragic love story_ ,” repeated Varric, with more emphasis, “will inspire story tellers for ages to come!”

“Are you quite done?” Dorian asked, all but excited at Varric proclaiming his latest adventure like an Orlaisian bard publicly shaming a noble at a fancy mask party. “I don’t think the people on the fifth floor have quite heard you.”

“I don’t get how you’re still so grumpy and sarcastic even after getting laid. I mean, I can’t imagine qunaris to be Thedas’ best lovers, but an orgasm’s an orgasm, right?” Varric said, elbowing Dorian in the hip.

“Maybe I’m so grumpy because a bloody dwarf keeps sharing my business with the world,” he retorted with a huff as he rubbed his side. If his hipbone wasn’t bruised before, it was sure to be now.

“Oh, cheer up! It could be Leliana doing it!” Varric pointed out.

Dorian paused in his rubbing and narrowed his eyes at Varric. “Fair enough. Hope that’s not a threat, since I’ve told you what you wanted to know?” he asked, cautiously.

He knew Varric wasn’t as bad as people liked to depict him. He had this air about him, as if he were a buffoon, but he had a sharp mind and a sharper pen, and many people found out in the worst possible way that he was also able to keep his wits about him when he drunk.

Still. Dorian wasn’t sure what the man would do to get a fresh story.

“Don’t worry, I intend to keep this to myself. But I do want to meet this qunari fellow of yours.”

“I’m glad you don’t ask that about all the people I sleep with.”

“Hey, I know most humans on campus. I don’t need you to introduce them to me.”

Dorian returned the earlier favour by punching Varric’s shoulder, and he pretended not to wince when his fist collided with firm muscles. He probably failed since Varric’s uproarious laugh indicated he had felt nothing at all.

“Come on, Sparkler, I wouldn’t want you to be late for your weekly chess match,” Varric said, reaching for the building’s door handle again, pausing in thought before opening it and adding, “Well. More late.”

“Isn’t that ‘laterer’?” Dorian said with faked annoyance, knowing that bad grammar usually managed to bother Varric more than physical blows. Sadly, this time it didn’t work, because the dwarf laughed again. Dorian’s confession must really have put him in a good mood.

Together, the two students walked up the stairs, all the way to the third floor, where the Inquisition’s headquarters were. The tall, narrow building was organized with a set of printers and copy machines at the first floor; a few vending and coffee machines in a break room that doubled as an interview room on the second floor; the actual offices where work was done on the third floor; and a conference room with what was affectionately called “the war table” on the fourth floor. The fifth floor was just an attic, were boxes with old issues of the newspaper were “archived” and some office supplies were kept, from stationary to old fashioned dictionaries to spare landline phones to ink toners. They also had a small windowless basement that was used as a dark chamber for photo developing, which explained why spare toners were kept so far away from where they could actually be of use.

Dorian hated the building’s lack of an elevator. He was by no means out of shape, but he was lazy to his bones and hated the way Varric almost seemed to prance up the stairs on his short legs.

Dorian took a sip of his coffee when they arrived on their floor, partly to mask the fact that he was almost winded and party so it wouldn’t get cold after being neglected for so long in favour of a conversation he’d rather have avoided.

“Hey there, Seeker of stories!” Varric greeted Cassandra, making her jump slightly.

She had been bent over her small desk, intently reading something that she had crumpled in her startle, but now she was glaring at Varric so intensely that Dorian took a step to the side.

“About time you showed up,” she said in her thick Nevarran accent, smoothing the papers back.

“What can I say, I like being fashionably late,” Varric said with a shrug and a grin, approaching her desk.

“Two hours isn’t what I’d call fashionably late,” Cassandra replied, nodding in greeting in Dorian’s direction.

“You know I don’t work on Sundays,” Varric insisted, “I’m sure not even the Maker worked on Sundays.”

“Oh, good thing your work is supposed to be done, then. You’re just here for the delivery. Right?”

“Well…”

“ _Varric_.”

“Hey, _I_ think the chapter is finished, but I also know there’s a part you won’t like and will insist I’ll correct…”

“ _Ugh_. This is why I insist you should deliver on Fridays! Now we’ll have to work through lunch to get this ready for tomorrow’s issue,” Cassandra groaned, but Varric didn’t seem phased.

“It’s a date, then!”

Dorian shook his head and left the two to their banter, deciding to just go ahead and go to Cullen’s desk, setting down his portable chess set and placing all the pieces. The man was nowhere to be seen, but that wasn’t unusual. It was around the time when he returned from checking all the scores from the previous day’s matches and interviewing key players from the winning teams. On some weekends he would go with whatever team was playing out of their campus to do his job, and Dorian would have to put a hold on their chess war until he was back on Mondays.

He wasn’t as into Cullen as Varric liked to tease him about. He really just liked the man’s company as a friend who could show a brilliant strategic mind during a game while also looking dead gorgeous – just like himself. But he couldn’t hold a conversation with the man for too long before it went in one of two directions: sports or politics. Both topics bored Dorian to death, and just as well. Cullen was irremediably straight. What a waste.

When he was done with his set up work, Dorian finished the last dregs of his coffee, suppressing a grimace as the last of the alcohol punched him in the guts. He threw the empty paper cup in the nearby trash can, and looked around the office.

Sundays were pretty lazy, not many people working the weekend unless there was some scoop to be had. Most of the journalists preferred to have everything done by the weekend so they could enjoy the two free days, exception made for Cullen, for sport events scheduling reasons, and Cassandra, who always seemed to be busy proof-reading or approving one article or the other.

The Post’s director usually swung by after lunch to make sure everything was in order and that the sample copy of the paper was in perfect shape, so they could start mass printing. Not that they made many copies anymore, most of their readers preferring to access the news on their website. Still, everyone seemed to prefer the feeling of old fashioned journalism.

There was also the photographer, whom Dorian was pretty sure barely left the basement at all. He remembered bumping into the boy at the coffee machine and asking why he insisted on using a film camera, but the answer had been something vague along the lines of, “I like to be able to develop photos, seeing the pictures appear like trapped spirits fading into this world…” Dorian had stepped back, then left when the boy had mentioned he shouldn’t “keep feelings bottled inside the fear of being yourself.” He was very talented, though, even if his hollow eyes seemed to read into people and no one could explain how he always managed to find the most meaningful shots with a single click of the shutter and without being seen.

Of the five desks in the room, two had an owner and three were shared between two people. Cassandra and Lavellan were the only ones who actually had a desk of their own, while the other journalists had all worked out a schedule for theirs. Cullen shared his with the Post’s artist, an elf Dorian had never met. Their arrangement worked well, because Cullen only really had weekends to work on, minor sports events not needing him to come in. Likewise, the Post had a new piece of art on its front page every day besides weekends, when Cullen did need the desk, andthe only times Dorian was around thanks to not having classes.

The desks beneath the only window was shared between Leliana and Josephine, who worked on the gossip page and the correspondence page respectively. The Post received a surprising amount of letters for a college paper, and Josephine answered whatever question the readers had to ask to both sate their curiosity about whatever topic they were after and strengthen their bond with their followers. It was basically PR packaged with a nice smile, work field recommendations, and flowery sentences that everyone seemed to love.

The last desk was in the far corner, opposite to Cassandra’s, and it was the least used. Dagna, Dorian’s partner in Arcanism, worked on it. She wrote a scientific column three times a week ranging from the latest tech and research to curious tid-bits about magic and related studies. She shared it with… Well, no one was sure who else used it, really. One day, simply, some neatly typewritten papers appeared on that desk. Upon closer inspection by Cassandra, she realised it was some sort of advice column someone had left for them to find. The advice seemed genuine, leaving the advised people anonymous, so they added it to their next issue. After that, letters and notes by people requiring advice started flooding in, and once every two days, without fail, they would find another article written by their mysterious counsellor. It worked and was one of their biggest selling points, so no one ever tried to find out who it was, in fear of causing them to stop. No matter that everyone wondered how he had known about those problems in the first place.

Unfortunately that set a precedent that caused no small amounts of headaches to Cassandra, who received drafts for potential articles almost every day, but very few ever got published. People were allowed to submit to the Post, but they didn’t always have anything interesting to say. The one time they received a very badly written erotic poem, everyone was sure Cassandra’s head would explode.

Like any other Sunday, that day the office was pretty much empty, exception made for Cassandra and Varric working on the latest instalment of his serialised story, Dorian himself and, surprisingly enough, Leliana. The office was missing its director, an elf Dorian had taken a strong liking to ever since the first time they had shared some conversation. He even considered them a friend and, truth be told, he would probably fall for them if they weren’t female presenting. As much as Dorian could like a person, he couldn’t bring himself to like their biology as well, but Lavellan hadn’t minded at all, their own heart already smitten for someone else. Dorian had been tremendously happy for them when he found out said person was none else than Josephine, and that she loved them right back.

Dorian wished he could find a person like that, too – the one who would fit right with him, despite all his problems and through all his labels, like Lavellan and Josephine had.

Wondering if the two were out together, and having nothing better to do, Dorian put his hands in his pockets and walked to Leliana’s desk, making sure he wasn’t disturbing her too much before speaking to her. He was still rather attached to his social life, after all.

“Good morning to the one and only mademoiselle de Rossignol,” Dorian said with a flourish and an exaggerated bow, knowing that Leliana liked this sort of courtesy. She would have fit right in a few centuries back, no doubt. Or at Tevene social gatherings, really.

“If it ain’t Mr Pavus,” she deadpanned with a small smirk, taking Dorian by surprise and causing him to laugh out loud and drop his act. “What can I do for you today?” she asked, her light Orlaisian accent making her sound more playful and less trustworthy at the same time.

“Who says I need anything?” Dorian asked, bringing a hand to his chest and conjuring the most mortified expression he could manage.

“Everyone needs something, and I happen to know a great deal about people,” she said, straightening some papers and stapling them together with practiced ease.

“That _is_ true,” Dorian said, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him.

“Our dear Inquisitor is out with Josephine, and Cullen should be back in about twenty or so minutes. I can never really tell with him, it depends on how many Mabari he meets on the way back,” she said, casting a glance in Dorian’s direction.

Damn, she was too good at this game. Dorian leaned on her desk and hummed, thoughtfully. Then, he spoke up.

“I have a question that might or might not challenge your knowledge,” he said, the glint in Leliana’s cerulean eyes letting him know it was a lost battle before it could even start.

“Oh?” she asked, putting the papers away and folding her hands on the tabletop, raising a nonchalant eyebrow.

“Ah, yes, well… You see,” he said with an air of conspiracy, leaning in so he could lower his voice. Partly to keep the gig going, and partly so he wouldn’t be overheard by the other people in the room. “I’ve heard that there’s a self-proclaimed Ben-Hassrath spy loose in the campus. Ever heard of him?”

Leliana seemed surprised for a moment, but then she simply said, “Oh, that would be The Iron Bull. He likes to wave his title around because he knows no one would believe him.”

A-ha! So Dorian was right! He wasn’t- wait.

“You know him? Wait, what do you mean by that? That he _is_ indeed a qunari spy and he’s just hiding in plain sight?” he asked, a frown on his face.

Leliana shrugged. “I don’t think he’s even hiding. It would make sense for the Qun to send spies here, no? It’s a neutral territory, far away from the cold war they’re fighting with Tevinter, and yet many of the minds that could shape the future are being educated here. Forged, for all they know, to act against them,” Leliana said with an eloquent once over of his person.

“That’s utterly ridiculous,” Dorian bristled like a peacock with ruffled feathers. “Why would the qunari waste resources on this kind of endeavour?”

“It’s not a waste when you send in people you’ve trained as spies for all their lives. If anything, this could be their final test. And you know the majority of the student body doesn’t have a good opinion of the Qun, just like they don’t like people from Tevinter because of the history. If people who graduate here decide, in the future, to move war against the qunari, they might want to have some dirt on them.” There was a moment of silence, and then Leliana asked, “Were you approached by The Iron Bull?”

Dorian should have felt the question coming, but he ended up blushing anyways.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would someone send a spy after me?” he asked, crossing his arms defensively.

“Come on, Dorian, you’re the only son of a Tevene Magister. It would make sense to keep an eye on you. You’re lucky, too. The Iron Bull is the most decent of the lot of them.”

Dorian shook his head. “Anyone who’s eavesdropped even one of my conversations would know that I haven’t talked to my father in ages, and even if I had, no one’s moving war against the qunari! The Magisterium may be full of self-absorbed parasites, but they’re not all madmen. Just idiots.” Then, he narrowed his eyes and fixed them on the woman. “Are you saying there’s more than _one_ qunari spy around campus?”

Leliana shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure, but I know they wouldn’t all have horns.”

Dorian stared at her, completely dumbfounded. Was she serious, or was she playing him? Either way, it didn’t make any sense! Why would… was that why The Iron Bull had had sex with him the previous night? But no, he had said Dorian had approached… not that Dorian remembered… Was it to get _dirt_ on him, then? Or just reaping a nice reward?

“Crap.”

“Already giving up on our match?” an amused voice said from behind him.

Dorian turned around to find a grinning Cullen shrugging his bag off his shoulder and onto the floor besides his desk.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. ‘Crap’ is simply the word of the day,” he said smoothly. Surely Leliana had been joking, and Dorian hadn’t caught up because his encounter with the enormous qunari had shaken him more than he had thought. One didn’t get such a visitor every day.

With a last glance in Leliana’s direction, to make sure she’d returned to her work and had nothing else to tell him – which told Dorian that it _had_ been a silly joke, thank you very much – the mage allowed himself to grin and approach Cullen’s desk, sitting on the wobbly chair placed there for visitors, and basically his.

“Come on, Rutherford. The faster I’ll destroy you, the sooner you can get back to work, the less likely it’ll be for Cassandra to murder you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More interesting stuff in the next chapter, I promise! I had to make a small presentation of the crew and show what everyone's up to, no?  
> Also, next chapter isn't finished yet, but I'm hoping to get it done in another week or so. Fingers crossed.


End file.
